


Duct Tape and Safety Pins

by sammyinlacypanties



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (as the wise sage Bruno Mars says: that's what i like), Angst, Bathtub Sex, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Bucky Barnes's Plums, Canon Compliant, Caretaking, F/M, Food Sex, Het, M/F, Magical Healing Vagina, Metal Arm Kink, Nipple Play, PTSD, Pegging, Plenty of Fluff, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Reader-Insert, Rough Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Shower Sex, Spanking, Vaginal Fingering, appearances & mentions of other characters, cue Bruno, i have been made aware that it is very cheesy fluff, i use spaces (“____”) instead of “y/n”, idk i just like it better that way, in which bucky finally gets a glass of milk, mostly Steve Sam T’Challa & Tony, oh well take it away Bruno, reader is a badass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-24 16:27:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2588309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammyinlacypanties/pseuds/sammyinlacypanties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a new guy in town, and you want a piece of him. But he's got secrets that you might not want to know about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He walked.

 

North, because it felt like home was north, but he didn't know for sure. He didn't know anything except his name.

 

_Bucky?_

 

He pushed the man's desperate face out of his mind. He had saved the man, and left him unconscious on the riverbank, and he had started walking. He wasn't ready for whatever that man had to tell him. He had abandoned his mission, and even though the helicarriers had fallen burning from the sky, even though the strangely familiar man and his friends had cut off three heads, still there were more to take their place. And so he had to keep moving.

 

He came to a city, where he found a crumpled twenty blowing in the breeze along a sidewalk, and he bought himself a shirt and a hoodie and an old backpack from a Goodwill, and ditched his bloodstained combat clothes in a dumpster after ripping off a few strips to bind up his aching arm. He had enough left to get some food at a gas station, all the while keeping his hood up and his left glove on and one eye on the cameras. There were cameras everywhere in this city, and police, and televisions chattering frantically about the unfolding disaster in D.C.

He could not stay here, so he kept going north.

 

After a day of walking alongside the highway, he came to a sign:

 

           Welcome to

  WILMINGTON, DELAWARE

  "A place to be somebody"

 

Yes, that was what he wanted. He didn't know yet who he was going to be. But he had been nobody for so long - somebody was a start.

 

\----------------

 

It was 7 pm, and the day-shift guys were beginning to trickle from the shipyard into the bar where you worked. All the loaders hung out at this little dive after their shifts were over, and as far as you were concerned they were welcome. Bartending was not always the safest job for a woman, especially not in this town. But when the guys were here - Johnny and Robert and Manny and the rest, rough looking tattooed men, many of them ex-military - when they were here you knew no half-drunk patron was gonna give you a hard time. You served them beers and laughed at their jokes and listened to their stories, and they kept an eye out for you. These shifts were your favorites - you knew all the faces in the bar tonight.

 

Except for one.

 

He had been coming in with the shipyard workers for awhile now; but while the rest of them pulled a few tables together, he sat alone. Always in the back corner, always with his face scruffy and his long hair tied back in a ponytail and a glove on his left hand. He had the biggest tolerance for alcohol you had ever seen – larger men had staggered clumsily out of the bar on fewer beers than this one drank every night. But his movements were never slowed, never any less precise. He spoke to no one, and watched the television like a hawk when the news was on.

 

Tonight you finally got up the courage to ask the boys about him.

 

Rob and Manny fell silent and tried not to look towards the back corner of the room. "Oh, that one..." Johnny began. "Well, he showed up a couple weeks ago, not a piece of paper to his name. Says his name's Steve. He loads cargo like a beast, never gets tired. Wears a hoodie and a left glove, even when the sun's out. Keeps to himself, does his work, drinks his beer, doesn't trouble nobody. That's all I know."

 

Manny spoke up. "Lemme tell you though...I know the look of a man that's running from somethin."

 

"He's always listening real hard when anyone talks about that shit happening in DC," Rob said.

 

Johnny leaned in. "Just remember, _____; he gives you any trouble, you know where to find us."

 

"Thanks, guys," you said, gathering up their empty bottles to throw away. You looked, and 'Steve' was leaned back in his chair, and for the hundredth time it took your breath away - the breadth of his shoulders, the obvious strength of his wide chest, the thousand secrets hidden behind his ice blue eyes and the hard set of his mouth, watching the nightly news special on the ongoing S.H.I.E.L.D. catastrophe like it was his whole world.

 

No, he wasn't giving you any trouble. But you sure wished he would.

 

The next night, everyone was there as usual - the guys laughing at their tables, 'Steve' sitting in the corner brooding, you behind the bar. Then a familiar – albeit unwelcome - face appeared in the bar. Everyone knew Harold was a hopeless drunk, and whenever he showed up there was bound to be trouble. The dock workers scowled at him as he ambled past them up to the bar and ordered what was certainly not his first drink of the day and would probably not be his last. His eyes didn't leave you as you served him and started to return to your work.

 

"You know what they need at this joint? Strippers. I mean they've already got you darlin, all they need is a stage..."

 

"Fuck off, Harold." You knew your boss wouldn't be upset with you for speaking your mind to this douchebag. Every bartender in a ten mile radius hated this guy.

 

"Now that wasn't very nice, someone oughta teach you some manners little girl..." he said, slurring his words, and he clumsily reached out his hand and grabbed your arm in a surprisingly strong grip.

 

You started to pull away in disgust and across the room you saw the dock workers start to get to their feet angrily, but before you could blink Steve was there, his hidden left arm clamped in a vice grip around Harold's wrist, his cold blue stare boring into the widening watery eyes of the drunkard.

 

"You should leave," he said, deathly quiet.

 

Harold let go of you and promptly made his way out of the bar, mumbling something about "no respect in this town" and not bothering to pay for the drink he had half-finished. Before you could catch your breath to thank him, Steve had returned to his table and was once again sitting quietly, thoughtfully, his eyes on the TV set, and Johnny had come up to the bar to make sure you were okay. "Yeah, I'm fine. Nothing I can't handle," you assured him.

 

But this good deed wasn't going to go without thanks on your watch.

 

A few minutes later you sauntered over to Steve's table with a fresh beer in hand, praying with every step that you wouldn't mess up and say something stupid as you were wont to do.

 

"You know, I know all the guys that work in the shipyard but you. Where you from, stranger?"

 

He stared at you for a moment, almost blankly. "...D.C.", he finally said.

 

"Ah. Not a very good place to be right now."

 

"That's why I left." He stared down at his empty bottle, and you placed the new one in front if him.

 

"This one's on me. Thanks a lot...for what you did."

 

"Don't mention it." Immediately he took a drink, as if looking for any excuse not to meet your eyes.

 

"Well I'm _____, and me and the guys would like to make you feel welcome here.

Wilmington's a rough town, but we take care of each other. You got a name?" you asked, pretending that you didn't already know.

 

He started to give a name and then stopped himself, thought for a split second, then said "Steve".

 

And you knew right away that wasn't his real name, and you knew that you wouldn't stop until you knew what it was.

 

"So, Steve, when's your next day off? We could grab a cup of coffee if you like, and I can show you around the town."

 

He fidgeted, his expression wary, his gloved left hand opening and closing like a nervous tic. You heard a soft, strange noise, like a metallic clicking, but thought nothing of it. Maybe one of the taps needed maintenance. "Uh...tuesday. I'm off tuesday."

 

"Alright, well how about you meet me at the coffee shop on Main at noon? I'll write down the address for you."

 

"I know which one it is...I'll be there," he said, in a way that indicated that a coffee date was the most terrifying thing he could imagine.

 

'Steve' finished his beer, put his payment on the table (with a good tip, as always) and left earlier than usual, pulling up his hood and walking out into the night before you even realized he was heading out.

 

You smirked a little as he disappeared into the fog. Tuesday was going to be an interesting day.

 

\------------

 

The midday sun was bright and the air crisp when you came around the corner of main and saw him sitting out on the patio, in his hoodie and glove as always - but with the hood pulled back and his face turned up to the sun, like he had been starved of its warmth for years, and again you were struck by the beauty of him, not just the angles of his handsome face but the mystery of his life. You took a deep breath and stepped up onto the patio, making sure he noticed you before you sat down across from him.

 

You knew what you wanted already, but the way he looked at the menu told you that he was hopelessly lost.

 

"Do you like your coffee black or with milk? Bitter or sweet?"

 

"I have no idea. I've never been to a place like this before."

 

"Well, how about you try my favorite?"

 

"Sure."

 

The waiter came around and you ordered two hot caramel macchiatos. When the coffee came you watched as your date took a tentative sip of his. He raised his eyebrows a bit, thoughtful, and took a longer drink.

 

"How is it?"

 

"It's...pretty good."

 

"Yeah, this place is cheaper than Starbucks, not to mention less crowded and they don't burn their frickin coffee."

 

He looked at you as if you were speaking a different language, and you couldn't help but chuckle. A tiny smile nearly overthrew his stoic demeanor, and he hid it behind his cup.

 

The bill came and you insisted you would get it - "Seriously, I owe you one" – and as the two of you left the coffee shop you offered to show him around the town.

"There are some really cool places here, man."

 

"Well... okay."

 

And so the two of you walked around town as you showed him all your favorite spots. You ambled along the riverwalk and pointed out the zoo, the art museum, the opera house. When you came to the library you insisted he come inside with you.

 

"Okay, so what's so special about this place?"

 

"Just smell." You breathed deeply, and he followed suit.

 

"It smells like old books."

 

" _Exactly_ ," you said with a smile.

 

You led him to your favorite section, full of yellowed hardcover editions of 80's thriller novels. "So what kind of things do you like to read, _Steve_?"

 

He raised an eyebrow at your inflection. "I don't really read much, _____," he said, putting a sarcastic emphasis on your name. This one was a tough nut.

 

"Well that's something that needs to be remedied." You picked up a copy of _The Shining_ , pausing to breathe in the smell of pages that were older than you. "Wouldyou like to be scared..." You set down the horror story and picked up a wornedition of Dean Koontz's _One Door Away From Heaven_. "...or touched?" You held upthe book and smirked around it at him.

 

He reached out slowly and took the book carefully in his right hand - _calloused_ , you saw - looking at it suspiciously, but with wonder.

 

"I think I've had enough of being scared for awhile."

 

It was in that moment, watching him gently and curiously turn through the pages of your favorite book, that you decided that you were going to learn everything there was to know about this strong, mysterious man.

 

You checked out the book for him with your library card, introducing him to the kind old head librarian in the process, who was one of your favorite people in Wilmington. By the time the two of you left it was almost evening, and you invited him to have dinner with you at your apartment. Hesitantly, he agreed, and you walked back to your small apartment on the north side of town.

 

'Steve' looked out of place sitting at the small kitchen table as you cooked up some freezer aisle shrimp scampi. Every now and then you would glance at him and see him surreptitiously surveying your apartment. You had no doubt that he noticed everything, memorizing the layout of the flat with a practiced eye. You knew the military type when you saw it and this man definitely had some kind of training. You turned off the stove and brought the meal to the table, then opened up the fridge.

 

"I don't stock alcohol, I've seen too much of what it does to people...so your options are water, juice, milk and Coke."

 

"I'll have milk, thank you."

 

It was a weird choice with shrimp and pasta, but you shrugged and poured him a glass and grabbed yourself a Coke. You sat down across from him, and he started to dig in like it was the best thing he'd ever tasted.

 

You slowly took a bite of pasta and a sip of your soda, and thought carefully about your next words. "So...your name isn't actually Steve, is it?" you said, more as a statement than a question.

 

He stiffened, pausing with the fork raised halfway to his lips, then putting it down and narrowing his eyes.

 

"Why would you think that?"

 

"Because you're not used to it yet, and it shows."

 

He looked down at his plate, then took another bite of food, chewed and swallowed, the gears turning behind his eyes as he decided what to say, how much to say.

 

"Bucky," he said softly. "That's my name."

 

He took a drink of his milk, and you asked him gently: "What are you running from, Bucky?"

 

He was quiet for a moment. "That stuff in D.C...I was...involved. That's really all I should say..."

 

"I understand. Are you a rapist?"

 

"What? No."

 

"Pedophile?"

 

"No!"

 

"Then you're welcome at my place anytime." You smiled at him, and he gave a small smile in return.

 

You were both finishing your meal when you asked Bucky where he was living.

 

"Uh...the shelter on 17th."

 

"The _homeless_ shelter?"

 

"Yeah. I haven't been in town that long, and...I don't really have any ID."

 

You knew you would probably live to regret asking, but your mother had raised you right and you just couldn't let it go. "You know, this place isn't the Ritz but I've got a fold-out couch in the living room."

 

"I..." Suddenly, he lowered his voice. "It might not be safe for you to have me here."

 

"Do you have a gun?"

 

"...Yes."

 

"Do you know how to use it?"

 

"Of course," he said, almost insulted.

 

"Well that makes two of us."

 

"You?..."

 

"This is Wilmington, friend. Everyone has a gun, and most of us know how to use them. Now, would you know if someone was following you?"

 

"Yes."

 

"So no one is following you at the moment. And to make you feel better, I'll give you a house rule: if someone is following you, don't lead them here. As long as you follow that rule, I'll be safe as a princess in her dragon-guarded tower. Deal?" _What am I getting myself into?_

 

He hesitated, but finally gave in. "Okay."

 

You offered to drive him to the shelter to pick up his stuff; he indicated the ratty backpack he had set down by his feet. "Everything I have is in there." Your heart twisted a little inside you.

 

"Well, how about you take a shower while I get the couch ready?" You went to the closet and took out some extra towels and washrags and some oversized pajama pants - _if my ass can fit in these then certainly his can_ \- and offered them to him. "You can use my shampoo, it's not too girly-smelling. The body wash is, but I guess you can use that too if you want, I mean, no judgment here."

 

He took the bundle from your arms and made his way towards the bathroom, then stopped and turned around for a moment, looking at you with something strange in his eyes – _sadness? longing? fear? –_ and said, “Thank you. For all of this.”

 

You shrugged and smiled like it was nothing, like the look in his eyes hadn’t just shaken your whole world. “Don’t mention it. You can stay as long as you like.”

 

He smiled weakly, as if smiling wasn’t something he entirely had the hang of, and closed the door to the bathroom.

 

You had folded out the couch and were starting to put the sheets on it when you heard the water running and the thought hit you – _oh my god he’s naked in my apartment right now._ You tried hard to push the images away but you couldn’t, and you admitted to yourself that this wasn’t the first time you had wondered exactly what he looked like under those baggy clothes he wore. You thought about that a lot, actually. He was obviously tall and well-built…no, you probably shouldn’t let yourself fall down that rabbit hole right now. But why did he feel the need to keep his left arm hidden all the time? You had decided that he probably either had some sort of burns or scars or that he was missing some fingers, and didn’t want to freak anyone out. Maybe he didn’t want to think about it himself. There were certainly things in his past that he didn’t want to talk about.

 

You had gotten the bed all made up and ready by the time you heard the water turn off. When Bucky opened the bathroom door the smell of pumpkin spice drifted through the apartment with the steam – it appeared that he had, in fact, used your body wash. You smiled to yourself as you cleaned up the table and began to load the dishwasher. He came into the living room in the pajama pants you gave him and his old hoodie – _he’s got to let me wash that thing sometime_ – and looked at the humble bed as if it were a Sleep Number with silk sheets and chocolates on the pillowcase. _How long has it been since this man has had a roof over his head?_ He sat down on the edge of the bed, taking care not to muss the blankets, and watched you with his hands in his lap as you worked in the kitchen. After a minute or so of silence, he spoke.

 

“So…you’ve put quite a lot of thought into home security.”

 

You laughed aloud. “Do you know where you are? This is one of the most dangerous towns in America. I grew up here, and there’s good people here, but safety is a basic survival skill.”

 

“Well…anyone comes through that door, I’ll put him down. You can feel safe with me here.”

 

You turned and smirked at him. “Why thank you, Sir Galahad. I will sleep soundly knowing I have you to guard my honor.” Your grin turned into a laugh at his look of confusion. _Man, what planet is this guy from?_

\-----------

 

It was midnight, and you were in that strange place between sleeping and waking. Dominating your mind was the image of Bucky as you had left him when you went to bed – sitting in the soft light of the living room lamp, the blankets drawn up to his chest, immersed in the book you had checked out for him. You knew he would enjoy the story – your favorite, with the sad but beautiful woman and the handicapped but unbreakable little girl and the boy from another world, on the run from those who were hunting him. But now your guest was done reading for the night – the light in the other room was turned off. All was dark and silent, save for the sound of traffic on the roads outside.

 

And then Bucky began to scream.

 

Instinct took over and suddenly you were wide awake, and you grabbed the 9mm handgun you kept on your nightstand – with no safety switch and a round in the chamber – and ran to your door, throwing it open, holding up the pistol with one hand and flipping on the light with the other.

 

There was no one there but Bucky. He had kicked the blankets off the bed and was tangled in the sheets, thrashing in the throes of a nightmare. No – his eyes were open. This was a panic attack.

 

Moving slowly, you set the pistol down on the counter behind you and eased toward the terrified man, your hands held up in front of you.

 

“Hey, hey – Bucky, it’s me. You’re dreaming.”

 

“No, NO.”

 

Carefully, you knelt down in front of him and touched his face with your hand. He froze – and then his eyes focused on you.

 

“It’s okay. No one’s gonna hurt you. It’s just you and me.”

 

Slowly, he sat up, his eyes wide, his breathing rapid and shallow but slowing by the second, sweat beading on his face.

 

“I…I’m sorry, I…”

 

“It’s okay, man. I wasn’t really asleep anyway. You gonna be alright?”

 

“Yeah, I think. I’m fine.”

 

And then the sheet fell away from his shoulders, and his hoodie wasn’t on underneath, and you gasped.

 

He was just as muscular as you had figured he was. His right arm was bruised all around the elbow, but that wasn’t what drew your eye. His left side was not, in fact, burned or deformed – but you could see immediately why he kept it hidden. All around his left shoulder there was rough scar tissue where a metal plate had been set under his skin, which anchored the most advanced prosthetic you had ever seen. His entire arm was made of moving, interlocking metal pieces that made faint sounds as they moved. At the top of the arm was a red star, painted on the otherwise unadorned metal.

His eyes widened in terror, and he grasped at the sheet to pull it back over himself. You held up your hand to stop him, and he flinched, as if he thought you were going to hit him.

 

“Hey, Bucky…it’s okay. You…you don’t have to be afraid.” You breathed deeply, keeping your voice even and your movements calm, and sat down on the bed beside him. When he saw that you weren’t angry or frightened, he relaxed a little, but still he never took his eyes off you. You reached out slowly, and gently brushed your fingertips over the scars on the left side of his broad chest. His expression was one of complete confusion, like he had never been touched in his life. You looked into his eyes and told him firmly, “You don’t have to hide yourself from me.”

 

He stayed still as you trailed your hand over his shoulder and down his arm, finally taking his metal hand in yours. “Can you feel with this?”

 

“I…” He had to stop and clear his throat, and then take a deep breath. “I can feel the movement...and some pressure, and temperature...but not like skin does.”

 

“A damn shame,” you said, as you pulled his hand up to your face and placed it there, cupping your cheek. He stayed still as stone, as if afraid that the slightest movement might hurt you. This arm was definitely not made for gentle touches. You trailed your hand back to his shoulder and then down his chest, finally breaking his paralysis. He put his left arm back at his side and reached out his right, placing his warm palm on your other cheek, and leaning in towards you. You closed the gap and closed your eyes, your soft lips meeting his chapped ones, his bristly cheeks tickling your face as he kissed you timidly, clumsily, like he had never kissed before in his life.

 

You needed to teach this boy some things.

 

You put one hand on his firm chest and reached the other around to the back of his head, grasping his shaggy hair and pulling him closer to you, kissing him more urgently now, and he sensed the difference. He slid his right arm around your back, pulling your body tightly to his, and you relished the feel of your (still unfortunately covered) breasts pressing against his strong chest. His kisses were more determined now, like he had forgotten but now he remembered. You bit his bottom lip and he moaned. “You like that?” you whispered into his mouth.

 

“Yeah…”

 

“Well I do too,” you told him, looking into his eyes. And slowly, he took your bottom lip between his teeth and tugged, and all of your walls fell down and you knew you couldn’t resist anymore. You pulled your nightgown up over your head, and he was immobilized for a moment, looking at you in a way that you had waited your whole life to be looked at by someone. Then you were kissing him again, your hands trailing down his hard body to tug at his borrowed pajama pants, letting him know exactly what you wanted him to do next. He pulled off the pants and tossed them over his shoulder, and now he was naked – you weren’t even sure if he owned a pair of underwear – and he was obviously becoming aroused. You had been in a constant state of half-arousal since the first time you saw this man, and you stripped off your panties and threw them somewhere and set yourself down onto his lap, putting your arms around his neck and looking into his blue eyes. You could tell he was scared out of his mind.

 

“Have you ever done this before?”

 

“No.”

 

“Do you know what to do?”

 

“I think so.”

 

“Touch me.”

 

“Where?”

 

“Everywhere.”

 

Slowly, he traced the side of your face with his right hand, then moved down, caressing your neck, and then cupping your left breast. He squeezed, and you moaned softly. But something was missing.

 

“I have two of those, you know.”

 

He moved his hand to your right breast, and you sighed. “You have two hands.”

 

He stiffened. “I don’t want to…pinch you.”

 

You smirked. “Maybe I want you to pinch me.”

 

His eyes widened, but he obliged. You leaned your head back as you felt warm skin on your left breast and cold metal surrounding your right. He squeezed, and it did pinch, but at this point anything felt good as long as he was touching you, and you closed your eyes and ground your hips into his, feeling him grow warmer and firmer down there every second. He caressed your breasts for another moment, and then you whispered, “Kiss me.”

 

“Where?”

 

“Everywhere.”

 

Realization dawned in his eyes, and again it was like he was remembering things long forgotten – he buried his face between your shoulder and your neck, and you sighed as he kissed down your neck and your chest and then took one of your nipples in his mouth, kissing and sucking and grazing your sensitive skin with his teeth as he pinched the other one with his cold metal hand, and it was too much for you. You grabbed his left hand and pulled it down between your legs. He hesitated at first, then began to rub you. It had been awhile since you had shaved and apparently he could care less. Every now and then you would feel a little pinch as your skin or your hair would catch in the small gaps between the metal plates, but you were beyond pain now. He moved his mouth to your other breast as he slipped a finger inside you – still a little cold but warming up from the contact. You gasped as he worked his finger in and out, no longer pinching now – you were too wet down there for the metal to grab your skin. He was fully aroused now, and he nibbled roughly on your nipple and slipped another finger inside you, no longer needing your instruction – in the small part of your brain that was still forming words, you seriously doubted that this was actually his first time. Then he crooked his fingers up, and ground his body against yours, and words that were not “Oh god, Bucky” no longer existed for you as you shuddered against him, your whole body seizing up and then relaxing completely.

 

“Fuck me,” you whispered hoarsely.

 

He flipped you over onto your back, firmly but gently placing your head onto the pillow and leaning over you, bracing his hands on either side of your head. He kissed your mouth as he slowly lowered himself and entered you, but you needed no more conditioning. You were hot and breathless and all soft and wet inside, and he fit you perfectly. He found a rhythm and you reveled in the feeling of his strong body brushing yours, his mouth on yours and his hard manhood inside you, pumping fast and strong and it didn’t even matter how long it lasted because you were already past the point of mere pleasure – it was almost sensory overload at this point. He shuddered and lost his rhythm as he came, his strong hands grasping the sheets around your head, his husky voice crying out, and then it was over and he collapsed beside you.

 

After you had both caught your breath you snuggled into his chest and he wrapped his right arm around you, and slowly and quietly he told you everything.


	2. Chapter 2

In the gray pre-dawn light, Bucky watched the woman sleeping next to him. She had wrapped her arms around him in the night, and tangled her legs in his, and pressed her naked body to him. His right arm was around her and he was laying on his left, the edges of the metal plates digging uncomfortably into his side. But he didn't care. His whole world consisted of her serene face, her slow breathing, her soft, warm body.

 

This may have been a terrible idea, but it sure felt good right now.

 

Bucky closed his eyes and dozed for awhile, warm and safe and content for the first time in his memory, until the sunlight streamed through the blinds and _____ was waking and it was time to get ready for work.

 

\----------

 

Waking in bed next to Bucky was definitely something you could get used to. He was warm and his face was sleepy and his hair was mussed, and it was all you could do to get up and set your feet on the cold floor and put your nightgown back on. But you were hungry, so you went to the kitchen and opened the freezer. "How do you like your waffles?"

 

"Not sure."

 

"Oh, yeah. Well, I'll make them how I like them then."

 

Ten minutes later you were sitting across the small table from Bucky, who had put on his pajama pants and tshirt and was now eagerly devouring a stack of waffles covered in butter and syrup and gulping down milk. "You have work today, right?" You asked him.

 

"Mmhmm."

 

"I can drive you."

 

He swallowed. "You don't have to."

 

"I know, but it's pretty chilly out there this morning."

 

"Alright."

 

You tried not to watch him too overtly as he got ready, dressing and pulling back his hair and brushing his teeth and just generally being devastatingly beautiful without trying. When he was ready, you loaned him an old scarf and a pair of mittens and the both of you got into your car and you drove across town to drop Bucky off at the shipyard - where he was still 'Steve' at this point, you reminded yourself. The guys chuckled and nudged each other as they saw him get out of your car, but as Bucky would tell you later, they didn't give him any trouble about it.

 

You spent the rest of the day tidying up your apartment and thinking about last night - _is this gonna be a thing now? are we a thing?_ \- and then in the evening you went to your shift at the bar. You were restless and buzzing with anticipation for an hour or so - when had you let your emotions become so affected by this man? He had killed people, and you barely knew him - hell, he barely knew himself; but then the dock workers showed up, with Bucky trailing in behind them all. Your eyes met and you exchanged small smiles, and suddenly you no longer felt like you were going to crawl out of your skin. You managed to convince him to sit at the table with the rest of the guys tonight - "Come on, man, they're great people," - and he reluctantly obliged and ended up having a little better time than he expected. He had built high, thick walls around himself, but you could see him starting to peek over them, wondering what it was like on the other side, longing to come out of his shell and be part of this world that he didn't fully understand yet. It warmed your heart to think that maybe, possibly, you had been the one to spark his curiosity, to weaken his walls. Or, well, at least the second one. He had told you about the man on the bridge, the one whose name he had taken, the one that had shattered his little world just a few weeks ago.

 

Bucky stayed until your shift was over and went home with you, but his original shyness had returned - he could feel the walls coming down, and he was scared. He was polite, and kind, but not as open with you as he had been last night. At the moment he was in the shower, washing off the sweat of his work shift – on the way home you had stopped at a corner store and gotten him some soap and deodorant that didn't smell like pumpkin spice, and he was grateful. But the last two days had been an emotional strain on him for sure, and he was slipping back inside his shell. You felt like you needed to let him know that there was nothing to be afraid of, but you didn't know how.

 

So you decided to use your body.

 

Slowly, quietly, you eased open the bathroom door and stepped into the steamy room, closing the door behind you with barely a sound. Instead of a curtain rod, your shower had a sliding door of clear frosted glass, and you saw Bucky sitting on the floor of the tub, his head bowed as the hot water ran down his arms and back. And then your eyes shifted, and you saw something you had not expected.

 

On the closed lid of the toilet, on top of the pile of Bucky's clothes, was his left arm, which he had apparently somehow detached from his body. Immediately you began to turn around to leave. After all the things he'd been through, after how he had been taken advantage of, you couldn't invade his privacy like this. You reached for the doorknob. But then, on the other side of the glass, his head shot up - he had seen you. _Shit_.

 

"I...I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..." You could barely speak, and you felt your face begin to redden.

 

"No...it's okay. You don't have to go."

 

Shocked into silence, you let go of the doorknob, at a loss for what to do next. _So, just stick with the original plan, dumbass._

 

You turned to face him - and you knew that he could only see your fuzzy outline through the glass, but that would be enough. Slowly, you took off your clothes, dropping them where you stood on the bathroom floor. Bucky's eyes never left your figure as you crossed the bathroom and slid open the shower door to step in and sit down behind him, your front facing his back. He met your eyes over his shoulder for a moment, then looked away, hanging his head, obvious tension in his back.

 

His left arm - his _actual_ left arm, or what was left of it - had been amputated just above the elbow. In addition to the metal plate around his shoulder that anchored the metal arm, there were ports set into the end of his arm where it looked like the cybernetic limb sort of plugged in. His partial limb was not quite as muscular as his right arm, as if perhaps the muscles on that side didn't get used quite as much, and there were ugly scars around the amputation site.

 

Carefully, you reached out your hands and placed them on his stiff shoulders. He flinched, almost as if out of habit, but then relaxed as you started massaging his muscles. You rubbed his neck, his shoulders, all the way down to the small of his back, and then you moved your hands to his upper arms on either side. He stiffened for a moment, but as you began to rub his triceps he closed his eyes and let his head fall forward, and after a minute or so you started to explore his left arm gently with your hands, and he allowed you to. You leaned forward and whispered in his ear, " _I told you you didn't have to hide from me_."

 

He turned his head around and looked at you, his stormy blue eyes full of a thousand emotions, and he reached his right arm up and pulled your face to his and kissed you deeply, slowly, and you wrapped your arms around his middle and suddenly the two of you couldn't get close enough and the heat of the water was nothing compared to the fire you felt in your belly. Apparently Bucky felt it too, because he turned to face you and wrapped his right arm around your shoulders, pulling you to your feet and pressing you against the back wall of the shower with a sudden urgency, a desperation he hadn’t shown last night. He kissed you harder now, his teeth grazing yours as his right hand roamed your body and then came to rest under your bottom, and he hoisted you up against the wall. Realizing exactly where this was going, you wrapped your legs around him and braced your hands on his shoulders, breaking the kiss to look into his eyes and hoping that he would understand what you meant with that look – _yes, oh yes –_ and he stared back at you as he thrust up into you, no longer timid and uncertain like he had been before but now fully aware of what he wanted. He fucked you hard and fast against the wall, holding you up with nothing but his strong body and his right arm, as you cried out his name and your thighs squeezed his middle in a vise grip and your nails dug into his back, and it seemed the more you scratched him and moaned the faster he went, until it was like he was no longer in control of himself and oh how you loved him like this, little gasps and growls escaping his lips, his eyes closing and his head tilting back as he came, and just when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore you came with him, and after that glorious few seconds his legs started to give out, and the both of you slid slowly to the floor of the tub, limbs still tangled up in each other, breathing hard.

 

After a minute he looked at you and his eyes widened, and he quickly looked away and said softly, “I’m sorry.”

 

“For what?”

 

“That was…a little rough.”

 

“James Buchanan Barnes, that was fucking _perfect_.”

 

\---------

 

She had asked him to sleep in her bed with her tonight, and he had agreed. He hadn’t even realized he had left his arm in the bathroom until they were already settled and she was falling asleep – _how the hell could I have forgotten that? –_ and he realized that it was because he felt safe here, like for once he didn’t need his Weapon. He realized one other thing, before he drifted off to sleep – that he trusted this woman, and that he would do anything she asked of him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, after so long, here it is!! (I am deeply sorry for the thousand year delay. College.)

To his initial surprise, Bucky soon began to settle into a comfortable everyday rhythm with his newfound lover. _Lover?_ Was that a word he could really use for her? It didn’t take him long to decide that yes, it was an appropriate title. He knew in the back of his mind that he had stayed in one place too long, that he could be putting her in danger just by being here – the thought nagged at him often. But where would he go if he left? Frankly, his willpower was nothing compared to his addiction to her; to the comfort and safety and understanding and pure affection she gave him.

Your empathic nature meant you got sort of a natural high from watching Bucky’s ease and confidence grow - and with it came more and more of his personality. He had a ruthless wit, and his increasingly common cocky smirks never failed to melt you. He still had days where he was distant; when he would sit and gaze out the window with his thousand-yard stare, or wake up sweating and breathing hard in the middle of the night. He often told you about the memories that were coming back to him piece by piece, but not always. There were times when you could tell with a glance that he was reliving some part of the past behind his eyes, but if he said nothing, you didn’t press him. He shared _plenty_ of himself with you in other ways. His growing trust in you was incredibly obvious in the bedroom, where he was now becoming more daring, more _demanding_ , taking his sweet time or going fast and hard, pushing your limits and his but always making sure you got yours. Yeah, not all of his memories were bad.

It was this attitude that gave you the courage to ask him for something you’d never brought up with a partner before.

“You want me to do _what?_ ” He looked at you, blue eyes wide, from where he had been sitting on the bed on a lazy Saturday morning reading a Stephen King novel - (they creeped the shit out of him, like they did everyone else, but you had finally persuaded him to read one and then he was hooked) - when you had interrupted, plopping down next to him and whispering your secret wishes into his ear. You faltered a bit at his surprised look – perhaps you had slightly overestimated the scope of his experience. He was, after all, older than your grandpa.

“Well it’s just something I’ve been thinking about and…I’ve just kind of always wanted to try it with someone but, umm…” _oh god, I’m rambling._

He took your hands in his, conveniently interrupting you, and said slowly: “Well…if it’s something you really want, I guess I’m up to try it.”

You grinned wickedly.

\-------

The low lamplight seemed to put a glow in your eyes as you gave your lover a playful look over you shoulder. “You can warm up a little first if you need to, you know,” you said through a smirk. Bucky cocked an eyebrow at you and leaned closer, unwilling to let such an obvious challenge go unanswered. You were on your elbows and knees on the bed, your bare ass presented eagerly to him. He began to caress you with both hands, warm skin and cold metal just barely brushing over your bottom, sending a shiver through you as he traveled up your back, down your thighs, and then back to your ass where he grabbed you suddenly with his metal hand and squeezed. It was all you could do not to rock yourself back against his thigh; you were getting turned on and becoming increasingly impatient. Unfortunately, patience was one of Bucky’s virtues. He put his hands on your hips and held you firmly in place.

“Are you sure you want this?” he asked, looking down at you.

“Absolutely,” you purred. “Go on, _spank me._ ”

With his right hand he gave a gentle slap to your ass, and you almost laughed aloud. “The point is for me to feel it, silly.”

“Well I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” you said, stretching yourself further toward him. After a moment of hesitation, he pulled back his right arm and gave you a smack that would definitely leave a handprint. You shut your eyes tight and gasped - the sting felt every bit as good as you’d hoped it would.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, that was way too hard.” Bucky pulled back, concern in his eyes. You turned quickly and caught him, pulling him towards you and putting a finger to his lips, your confidence bolstered by the warmth quickly growing between your legs.

“You don’t need to apologize for that. That was _exactly_ what I want,” you said, looking into his eyes, your face almost touching his.

“Wait…really?”

“Yep.”

“That’s…weird, but…okay.” Bucky relaxed and you turned away once more, leaning forward, and he began to rub the growing pink spot on your skin with his flesh hand. You shuddered – it was a very nice sensation.

“Now do it with the other hand”, you told him softly. He raised his left arm and you shut your eyes, your whole body tense with anticipation and ridiculously sensitive – but the smack never came. You opened one eye and turned around to look at him. He had lowered his arm and was sitting very still, looking down at his hands with that distant gaze you knew all too well.

“I…don’t want to hurt you. I…can’t.” He glanced at his metal arm with an odd look in his eyes, like it was something that didn’t belong to him, that shouldn’t be there – the glance was almost too quick to notice, but you saw it and understood. You sat up and took his hands in yours, and when his eyes started to focus on you, you snuggled into his lap, sitting quietly and stroking his right arm for a moment. This was not at all going how you’d hoped it would, but he leaned into you and rested his chin on your head, and you knew his faith in you was no less than it had been before.

“Listen, Bucky…you don’t ever have to worry about hurting me. In bed, I mean. When we’re together, like this… _everything_ feels good.”

He sighed. “I’m just not sure I really understand it. I mean, I believe you, but…it scares me. To do things like that. Making you feel good feels like the best thing I’ve ever done, but…”

He trailed off, unable to find the words to express himself, and so you relieved him of the responsibility with a gentle kiss, threading your hands into his long hair. He quickly responded, and it was entirely natural then – the way he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you closer, kissing you deeper, tenderly but passionately, suddenly no longer out of his depth. God, the man knew how to kiss. The sting in your skin had faded but your arousal was quickly rekindled as he pressed his body to yours, and you could no longer stand his underwear separating him from you, and you started to tug at the band – but then let it snap back against his skin as an idea came to you in the heat of the moment. It was probably a terrible idea, but you could feel that he was just as aroused as you were, and nothing mattered right then but feeling.

You took his bottom lip between your teeth and tugged on it, biting, like you had done a thousand times before, but with just a bit more force. He moaned, and his right hand grasped the back of your head, keeping your lips trapped against his. You raked your nails down his bare back, and he hissed with pleasure, shutting his eyes tight. “How does it feel, when I’m rough with you like that?” you purred into his ear. His eyes locked with yours, a dark, stormy blue in the dim light, and you knew he understood. He held your gaze as he pulled off his undershorts without hesitation.

You gripped his firm shoulder with one hand and grasped his hair in the other, and pulled it hard, lifting yourself up so you could drop down onto him, and as he thrust up into you, all of his usual patience suddenly lost, you tugged his hair and scratched his back and gave little bites all over his neck and shoulders, and when he started to go too fast you braced yourself on his chest and looked in his eyes and gently pushed him down, urging him to slow – but not too much, never too slow. He gave himself up completely, forgetting himself for once and gripping your hips so hard that you would have bruises the next day – but like you had said, everything felt good when the two of you were like this. And as he came hard into you, you smacked his firm ass – not too hard – and he leaned his head back and gasped, and then collapsed into you, breathing hard with his head on your shoulder, still holding your hips in his strong hands until finally he relaxed enough to whisper against your skin between breaths, _“I love you”_ \- and you laid down onto the bed, pulling him down next to you. The two of you lay there, foreheads pressed together, and when your breathing had slowed and your limbs began to feel heavy you answered him –

“I love you, too.”

\-------

Bucky didn’t come back to your apartment from work that day.

He had no cell phone for you to call. When you entered the bar that evening, you swept the room with your eyes and saw, with a pit in your stomach, that he wasn’t there either. You asked the shipyard guys and they told you he had got on the bus like he usually did – he had insisted awhile ago that you didn’t need to spend gas money on him every day, that he had a job and could easily afford a bus fare, there was no need for you to take the time out of your day to drive him to work. He had got on the bus. And he hadn’t come home.

A week passed. You thought over everything you had done that night, convinced somehow that it was your fault, that even though he was the one that had said the dreaded L-word first, you must have come on too strong and scared him off. But still, you kept one eye on the nightly news at the bar, always. Just like he used to do.

But one evening, two tall men in hoodies and baseball caps entered the bar and came directly to the counter, forcing you to tear your eyes away from the TV for a moment.

“______?” one of them asked, and it was all you could do not to gasp in shock when you saw the intense brown eyes staring at you from under his cap and knew immediately who he was. An even bigger shock came when you met the eyes of the bigger, taller man, as he pulled a picture from his jacket pocket and placed it in front of you on the counter; a picture of Bucky.

“Have you seen this man?” Steve Rogers asked you quietly. You remained silent, half because you were stunned speechless and half because you weren’t quite sure how much you should say. But then you remembered how Bucky had always spoken about Steve; how he was his best friend, how he had saved him twice now from HYDRA, how his was the only name he could think to hide behind when he first came to this town. You supposed that if you couldn’t trust Captain fucking America, then none of it mattered anyway.

“He was in town for awhile. He was staying at my apartment, but then a week ago he just…disappeared. I have no idea where he went. Why? What do you want with him?”

“We have reason to believe he’s in danger,” said Sam Wilson, “and if we’re gonna help him, we need you to tell us everything you can.”

 

**To be continued Summer 2016**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, you were expecting a happy ending?? *evil cackling*
> 
> (seriously though, after that Age of Ultron post-credits scene, there's no way i could let this one go.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised :)

Several more weeks passed. Sam and Steve corresponded with you occasionally, but there was only so much info you had for them and, eventually, they had nothing more for you. The trail had gone cold. You wanted nothing more than to collapse inside and out, to go home and lock the door and never come out again; but the rare texts and calls from Steve and Sam kept you going even as they crushed you one by one. This agonized waiting had become your life.

And then there was the bomb. And Bucky's blurry face plastered on every television screen in the world, and the search was renewed and so was your hope but also a new feeling - a mix of dread and confusion and pure fear. It made no sense. Steve was in total agreement; there was no motive. Even if there had been, this wasn't Bucky, not now or ever. But with all the new attention Sam and Steve managed to find a lead, and then a location, and left you with a promise that they would send word as soon as they could.

 

\-------

 

As bits of morning light filtered through the holes in the papers covering the windows, Bucky flipped through the pages of one of his journals. This was the Good Journal, the only one; the rest were the Bad Journals. Of course that category of subject matter needed more than one book. But this one didn't even have all the pages filled yet. On this page: a picture of Steve Rogers, cut from a magazine. Looking beautifully off into the middle distance, perfect, as always. On the next page, a picture of her. He had managed to sneak a treasured Polaroid of her and a friend into his backpack before he had left. They were smiling and laughing, looking goofy. Happy. Just how he preferred to remember her.

Steve would always be Bucky's best friend. Bucky would die for Steve; he already had, once. And though he wished it weren't so, he knew Steve would do the same for him. Judging by the current hit news story, it might be more likely to happen soon than ever before. But Steve would always know Bucky first and foremost as he had been - that dashing but naïve young man with so much hope for the future, so much trust in the potential of his fellow man. Steve had met the Winter Soldier, as well - cold and ruthless and hollow, more a weapon than a man. But after he had walked away from the banks of the Hudson, Bucky was no longer either of those people. And he knew that Steve still believed with all his heart that the old Bucky was still in there, and just needed some time to reemerge, and Bucky loved Steve for believing that. But it wasn't true, not really, and he wasn't ready to see that expectation in his friend's eyes, and to see it slowly disappear.

Her, however - she had never known the old Bucky, or the haggard and disillusioned Sgt. Barnes, or the Winter Soldier. She had known only the man he was now. And she had loved that man. She was perhaps the only person in the world that fully knew and cared for him just as he was, right now, and that more than anything had made it hard to leave her. In the year or two since D.C., staying in one place for so long had honestly been a bad idea. He had remained vigilant, and so had caught on when the vultures had started circling his general vicinity. He could erase his own tracks easy enough - he was a hunter, after all - but he could not erase her existence, and so he felt that silently leaving was the only way to keep her clear of the danger zone that was his presence. And considering that he was now apparently the prime suspect in a terrorist attack he knew nothing about, it seemed he had indeed made the right decision. It had hurt; it still did, especially knowing how it likely hurt her as well. And knowing how, without her, he was now truly alone again. She had been fine before him, and so he hoped that she would move on soon enough. But he knew he would not be moving on anytime soon, and often found himself keeping company with his memories of her...

_She sat across the bed from him, wearing her favorite sheer nightgown in the low light. She was smiling at him, but nervous._   
_"It's alright if you don't want to - I only want to do this if you want to," she started, but he reached over and put a finger to her lips._   
_"I would let you do absolutely anything to me, and I would love it," he said softly, his mouth crooked into a smirk but his eyes locked intently on hers. He could tell immediately the effect those words had on her; she stared ecstatically back at him for a moment as she flushed deeply, but then she remembered to breathe again and broke into a huge and wicked grin as she picked up the strap-on and began to fasten it around her hips and ass. Just watching her was enough to make Bucky start to harden - and once she had gotten the harness on and gave him a little 'turn around' motion with her finger, still with that hungry grin on her face, he began to fear that as soon as she touched his skin it would be over._

_But of course it wasn't._

Bucky leaned back onto the worn out bed and began to slide his right hand down his stomach as he remembered _how she had slipped her lubed fingers in and out of him, loosening and relaxing him as he hissed and arched his back with anticipation and the building warmth in his growing erection. Any misgivings he may have had about this experiment were gone by the time she leaned forward and first pushed the tip of the stainless steel rod into him, the metal startlingly chilly at first but quickly warming up with the heat of him ('Is that what it's like when I finger her?') as she slowly, patiently began to work in and out of him. The gentle friction of her body moving against his and the spasming of his muscles around the tool as she hit him with increasing force in a sweet spot he had never fully realized he had - it all built in his body and mind until he was floating, simply along for the ride, not totally understanding until later that much of the ecstasy he felt came from the feeling of her essentially having complete control of him and of him not being bothered at all by that knowledge. The safety in the sensation of her strong but soft hands pulling him into her hips over and over with just the right amount of speed and force and now things were coming out of his mouth that he wasn't exactly proofreading and that mostly consisted of "oh, fuck me baby, fuck me hard-" and then not only was she fucking him hard but she reached down one hand to caress his balls as she leaned over his back and whispered something in his ear about coming for her now as his arms desperately clutched the sheets below him, the clicking and grating sounds of straining metal muscles that she enjoyed so much coming from his left one-_

After a minute or so of torpid stillness, his body sated but his mind empty, Bucky shoved himself up off the bed and went into the bathroom to clean himself up. Afterward, once he had sighed tiredly at the mirror for an adequate amount of time, he put his boots on and grabbed his backpack and the worn ballcap that he pulled low over his face. It was risky to go out - the whole world wanted him right now - but it couldn't be put off any longer. He needed groceries bad.

 

\------

 

There had been some kind of fiasco in Europe, and it involved the Avengers - of course, that went without saying, but even with the media grasping at straws for lack of official details, it was still obviously something involving Sgt. James Barnes and Captain America. And so you were slightly surprised when you received a sparsely worded email from a seemingly randomly generated address, providing you with the tickets you would need for transportation to a not-explicitly-disclosed location and signed with an alias you had been told to look for. The plan was still on, which meant either Steve and Sam had gotten hold of Bucky, or they had been found out and you were walking into a setup. Either way, this was the only chance you had at the moment of ever seeing him again, and somewhere along the way that desire had turned into the only thing you wanted.

Two planes, a train and three buses later, you stood at the door of an abandoned-looking warehouse on the other side of the world. You reached up to knock, then decided against it, gently testing the door to find it unlocked and slowly easing it open and slipping inside. You heard familiar voices as your eyes adjusted to the darkness, and you rounded a corner just inside the entryway to see Steve and Sam, standing with their backs to you but their heads tilted expectantly in your direction - of course they had heard you. And in the middle of the room, sitting on a pile of crates in front of some strange hulking piece of machinery, and looking like absolute hell but alive, was Bucky, frozen as your eyes met his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So with Civil War being one of the darkest and most high-stakes MCU plotlines so far, the way I first imagined this continuation just didn't have much room for sex...but then I remembered how I originally started this as a PWP and so it would be such a shame to stop now. Hence, convenient flashback ;P


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So....to make this less awkward, let's just pretend i was dead for awhile but now i'm back like our Favorite Boys??? idk. i'm sorry. and no, i'm not done with this.

After a few moments of dead silence, Sam and Steve exchanged awkward glances and shuffled out of the room, leaving you and Bucky alone together. You slowly crossed the room to stand in front of him - he was still sitting, eyes riveted on you with an expression of longing mixed with fear. You slowly reached down and grabbed his hands, tugging gently until he stood, looking down at you now but never breaking his eye contact.

 "I wish you had told me," you said softly.

 He finally looked away, down at his feet. "I know. I'm sorry...but you would have tried to follow, wouldn't you?"

"…Probably," you admitted.

"And then all the stuff that happened the last two days...you would have got caught in it."

You sighed, knowing he was right. People like you who got within a few miles of a superhero fight tended to die. Apparently that fact was what most of this mess was about. But when you looked at his face, downcast and worried but still beautiful, logical arguments meant nothing anymore. _Goddammit, he knows me better than I_ _do_ -

 You hadn't realized you had just been staring and internally monologuing for a while until he interrupted - he looked up and met your eyes, saw how focused you were on his face, and then the fear and worry in his expression vanished and he pulled your face to his with his rough right hand and kissed you, long and slow and deep, and you practically melted into his arms, wrapping your arms around his shoulders just to hold yourself up.

 -----

 The walls in the old warehouse weren't too thick in some places anymore, and Sam and Steve were staring uncomfortably at each other in the next room.

 Sam cleared his throat. "So, Cap, uh...don't we have a potentially world-ending plot to stop right now, or..."

 Steve sighed and shook his head. "Can't rush these things, man."

 The two went back to staring silently at the wall.

 -------

 After your reunion had cooled down a bit, Bucky, Sam and Steve had filled you in on the details of what had happened, and what was going to happen next. Possibly the worst superhero fight of the modern age, and mostly over Bucky. Not to mention that after all the recovery he had done the last couple of years, all the confidence and maybe even peace he had started to find - some asshole had come along and ripped all that away from him in a moment, had taken his agency and made him try to kill his closest friend and slammed him back into that dark place you had found him in, that he had fought so hard to climb out of. It made you absolutely sick to think about it.

So you decided not to.

 This facility that had once been a warehouse had apparently been used as a safehouse by countless parties since the Cold War days, and was fitted with some basic amenities - a few lime-crusted bathrooms and some barracks-style rooms with rows of bunks. Not the Hilton, but it was good enough for a few worn-out travelers, with no mold or bugs in sight. Steve had pulled a favor with whatever party currently owned the place (you hadn't asked any questions) and you were good to stay for the night. So as the sun began to go down you looked at Bucky, who had plopped his frayed backpack down next to one of the creaky bunks, and said "you're gross," with a smirk. He smiled tiredly back at you and followed you into one of the bathrooms.

 The water filling the tub was only barely warm, but neither of you were complaining as you sat Bucky down on the edge and gently pulled off his shirt. He gazed contentedly at you in the dim light of one working incandescent bulb as you brushed his hair behind his ears with your fingers, and then moved your hands to his left shoulder. You had helped him with this enough times that he now no longer flinched or pulled away, even in spite of the time you’d spent apart, and the way he’d just been used. He grabbed his left forearm with his right arm as you pressed your fingers into four barely visible divots in the metal, which caused his prosthetic to release at the shoulder, and you helped him slide it off and put it aside. Getting the arm wet wasn't a problem - that would be quite an inconvenient limitation - but it was heavy, and sometimes it did pinch, and spending some time with it off helped to alleviate its strain on his body (so did massages, which you greatly enjoyed giving him). You helped him undress the rest of the way and ease into the tub, him still staring at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, mouth slightly open and eyes wide and vulnerable. While he sat back in the tub and watched in the low light, you stripped off your worn traveling clothes, leaving them in a heap on the cold stone floor, and lowered yourself into the water facing him, eyes locked on his, both of you shifting to just comfortably fit in the small tub. God, the way he stared at you desperately but without saying a word, the way he let his legs touch yours but no more, not leaning closer, just _waiting_...it was almost _chaste_ , almost shy. You had been apart for a few months now, and he knew his leaving had hurt you, and he’d just had what was probably his worst day in a couple years, and you wanted - _needed_ \- to let him know that it was okay, that you blamed him for none of it, that you wanted to pick up right where you left off and make up for all the lost time as soon as possible - but he wasn’t the best at setting boundaries when it came to you, and you knew you needed to follow his lead.

 You raised your eyebrows in a questioning look and made a scrunchy fingers motion at him - _massage?_ \- and he smiled tiredly and nodded, the spell that had had him staring raptly at you finally broken, and turned around so his back was facing you. You leaned closer, unfolding your legs and placing them on either side of his hips, not pressing flush against him but relaxing, grateful for the familiar closeness, and as soon as you put your hands lightly on his shoulders his head fell forward and he melted, letting out a breath neither of you realized he had been holding. His shoulders dropped and he leaned into you a bit as you began working his muscles, concerned but not surprised at all the tension you felt there. You spent the next ten minutes or so working out all the knots, first in his neck and shoulders, then his thick upper arms, his broad back, between and below his shoulder blades and then his lower back and sides, ending with your fingers pressing deeply in just above his hipbones - nothing necessarily sexual about it, but him enjoying the therapy and the contact and you enjoying giving it to him. And all the while you paid special attention to his left side, thoroughly dispelling the extra tension there, being gentle around his scars and all the ports in what was left of his upper arm and the small scattered bruises on his side where his prosthetic pinched him while he slept on it. Once you were satisfied with his state of relaxation you cupped your hands in the water and poured some over his head, gently combing out the tangles in his long hair with your fingers. When he unexpectedly leaned all the way back into you, tilting his head slightly to look at you with dreamy satisfaction and a tinge of longing in his eyes, you softly kissed him on one scruffy cheek.

 At that he turned to lay his head on your chest, wrapping his right arm around you and holding tight, collapsing into you and breathing in deeply the scent of your skin, your whole body suddenly tingling as he let the breath out quickly at the base of your neck. You wrapped one arm around him and gripped his hair with the other hand, holding him tightly to you. You both sat that way for a minute.

Then he said softly, “I’m so sorry, _____.”

“It’s okay,” you whispered back. “I understand.”

“I’m sorry for ever getting so close, I was selfish –“

“No,” you interrupted, putting a finger to his lips. “Do _not_ apologize for that.”

 But he took your hand in his and continued, unable to stop, becoming less coherent and more emotional with every word. He was sorry for leaving without saying anything, sorry for the danger he brought in the first place, sorry for being so fucked up, sorry for all the things he did, for what he was, sorry he didn’t just die back then in the snow like he should have and then you and Steve and everyone would be safe now-

 You grabbed his hair, hard, and pulled his face to your chest, wrapping your arms and legs around him as tight as you could, shushing him desperately, and finally his voice broke and he sobbed against you. You rubbed his back and stroked his hair and held in your own tears, and when he quieted you whispered fiercely into his ear:

“ _None of it was your fault._ You hear me? _None_ of it.”

 You repeated it to him over and over, the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth as far as you were concerned, until he relaxed against you again, nodding when you asked if he understood. Maybe asking him to believe was a little too much at this point, but he needed to know that _you_ believed it. That was enough for now.

 His breathing slowed and eventually he sat up and began to wash his face, and then the rest of him, and you followed suit so that the two of you were, against all odds, actually finally taking a bath. After a moment he looked at you sheepishly and said, as if it had all been some silly ruckus and he hadn’t known what had gotten into himself, “Sorry.”

“You can stop apologizing now,” you said, not unkindly.

“Sor- uh, yeah.” He looked down for a moment, at a loss for what to do, his cheeks flushing, and you thought you might spontaneously combust if he dragged this out any longer, but you had resigned not to push him. Then he looked up suddenly. “Are you hungry?”

“Of course I’m hungry,” you answered, famished after all the stress but utterly confused.

 Bucky leaned over the side of the tub. “I can’t believe Steve thought to grab my backpack when he saw it on the way out of the Interpol station…I mean he could have died…” He was rummaging around in the pack he had brought in with him earlier while he rambled, and eventually he pulled out a paper sack, peeking inside. “Well, they’re a little bruised, but still okay I guess.”

 Letting the sack fall back to the floor, he raised his right hand, which now contained two plums. “Ta-da,” he said, smiling and flourishing as if it were a magic trick, his easygoing way creeping back in, making you feel warm all over and so, so relieved.

“Dinner for two?” You said with a mock gasp and a huge smile, delicately taking one of the fruits. “You spoil me.”

 He grinned at you and took an enormous bite, and so did you. He had been right – there were a few soft spots in the flesh, but the skin of the plum was still tart and inside it was juicy and sweet. You took another bite after you’d hardly swallowed the first one, suddenly aware of how hungry you actually were. You felt some of the juice drip down your chin and onto your chest before you could think to catch it, and Bucky’s eyes followed as it trailed down between your breasts and into the water. He shifted his gaze back up to meet yours, and he knew that you knew he had seen. He sat back in the tub and smirked, and took another slow bite of his plum, all his earlier shyness forgotten, his eyes telling you not to stop on his account.

 You grinned back at him and took another bite, deliberately messy this time, pulling the fruit away from your mouth at just the right moment so that a big drop of juice fell just a tiny bit to the side of your right nipple, feeling cold against your suddenly flushed skin. You chewed languidly as Bucky watched the drop roll down the swell of your breast, then swallowed and said, “Oops.”

 Bucky dropped what was left of his plum down onto the paper sack on the floor and leaned in close to you, hesitating only a moment before kissing your neck open-mouthed at the spot where the first trail of juice had started and following it down. He half-kissed, half-licked the sticky skin all the way down your neck and chest, deliberately (maddeningly) avoiding your nipple, stopping when he could go no further without getting his mouth in the water, and looked up at you with a teasing turn to his lips, his blue eyes clear and startlingly intense.

 You pulled the half-finished plum away from your mouth and held it over your chest and _squeezed,_ trailing your hand from one side of your body to the other, so that the juice dripped all over your collarbone and your chest and both of your breasts, _especially_ the nipples, then tossed the squished fruit over the side of the tub, all the while looking at Bucky with a dark and challenging expression. The look he gave you back was one of absolute adoration, and a smile overtook his face and he said, as a drop of plum juice hit his cheek: “Oops.”

 He set to work on you with no hesitation then, lapping up all of the sticky juice with enthusiasm, but of course saving your breasts for last, no matter how much you grasped at his hair and tried to pull him to one side or the other. He licked and kissed and nibbled slowly around each of them, before finally gently biting into the soft flesh on the underside of the left – a million fruit puns ran through your mind – and then sucking softly and kissing where he had just bitten before moving on. He circled your nipple for what felt like ages, his lips only just barely brushing it when he moved to the right and did the same over there, ignoring your groans and your hips pushing up into him. You gasped and arched your back the moment he finally put his mouth over one nipple, his soft lips and rough, unshaven face creating a world of sensation, his teeth gently nibbling just the way he knew would drive you crazy. Then he sucked your aching skin deep into his mouth and you saw stars and felt nothing but heat and pleasure for a long moment, your nails desperately scratching his back, begging without words for more. He sucked and bit until you were almost sore and then did the same on the other side, and then he sat up on his knees and raised his body over yours and you felt how much he needed you; despite the fact that you could barely think, it always did something to you, knowing how badly it turned him on just to make you moan.

 But the only thing you loved more than his merciless teasing was returning the favor.

 You sat up and quickly pushed him back against the tub, leaning swiftly over and grabbing his forgotten plum from where it was leaking juice into the paper sack. Holding his gaze, you took one more quick bite (those plums were _good_ , dammit) and then rubbed the sweet flesh directly onto his skin. He hissed and arched his back at the cold feeling when you reached his nipples, and opened his mouth pliantly as you squeezed the last of the juice onto his lips. Before he could lick them you tossed the plum away and kissed him, tasting the sweetness still on his lips, pulling his tongue into your mouth and tasting it there too. You bit and tugged on his bottom lip the way you had when you had first kissed him and he _growled_ and ground his hips into yours, practically conditioned now by that little motion that you loved so much, and he did it in turn to you. As tempting as it was to give in now, though, you still had a mess to clean up. You nibbled along his sharp jaw and then moved down his neck as he had done earlier to you, licking at the sweet stickiness in his stubble and the hollow of his collarbone and then down further, shamelessly reveling in the hardness of his muscles as they worked, the remnant of his left arm bracing against the tub while his right hand tugged hard at your hair and trailed down your back. Much less patient than him, you then went straight for his nipples, relishing his moans and gasps as you nipped him roughly and sucked hard, switching back and forth constantly between the two. He caught his breath for a moment as he allowed you to gently kiss along the line of scars around his left shoulder, which he knew you loved to do, and then he sat up and gently pulled your head back by your hair and kissed you deeply. You wound your arms tightly around him and put one leg around his hips and he rocked into you, not roughly or too quickly, both of you taking the time to feel every bit of the other, but the urgency was still there in how tightly you clung to each other. You weren’t exactly sure how you ended up sitting in his lap, both legs wrapped around his waist, him kissing your neck as he slowly arched up into you with an easy and comfortable rhythm, but you loved it like this, every inch of your body pressed against every inch of his, the friction almost too much to bear but the slow pace keeping you from falling over the edge too quick. You did eventually though, of course, breathing hard into each other’s mouths, the now cool water welcome against the heat in your veins and on your skin, Bucky still inside you and neither of you moving as you both came down, panting, holding each other as if for dear life.

 ------

 You held each other later, too, spooning in the dark in one of the bunks that was barely big enough for one person, let alone two. But after spending so many nights sleeping alone, and knowing that at least the next few would be spent the same way, you both coveted all the closeness you could get.

 You leaned your head back and whispered to him, trying hard to keep your voice from breaking: “You have to promise me that you’ll come back to me. In one piece. Alive. Don’t you dare leave me waiting a moment longer than you have to.”

 Bucky thought about everything he had to face in the coming days, about where he was going back to, and what waited for him there. It seemed nearly impossible. But no matter what, he would do it for her.

He would survive this if it killed him.

“I promise you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyways yall can pry my "there's-still-some-arm-in-his-arm" headcanon from my COLD DEAD HANDS


End file.
